


Gran Turismo

by moprosecco



Category: Original Work
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-22
Updated: 2018-05-22
Packaged: 2019-05-10 03:55:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14729475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moprosecco/pseuds/moprosecco
Summary: Hotel Gran Turismo, a pub-slash-inn-slash-brothel had been standing tall in the south of Sicily for more than 50 years.





	Gran Turismo

 

When the bell of Duomo hit four Emilian heard familiar footsteps. Quickly he shoved the postcard in the waist of his trousers and reached for the mop. The door swung open and stuffy summer air crawled in, saturating the hall with amber evening heat. It carried the scent of Mediterranean soil. It almost smelled like home. “You know what I always tell Eglé,” Squeaks of wooden floor followed a jovial voice. “That you’re the best. That you’re my honey pot. If all the ragazzi were like you.” Then a little pat on the back. Emilian turned around, and there was the face he simply could not stop thinking of for the past few hours.

Taking off the sunglasses Dan gave Emilian his usual big beam. “Why are you cleaning up the hall? Go take a break. You don’t have to do this.”

“I thought I could do some housekeeping. Eglé was out and I had nothing to do.”  
“I bet you’re gonna regret what you just said in a week. The whole town will get real busy.”

Emilian casually shrugged, and Dan’s face lit up even more. “You’re a good boy. What would I do without you.” He ruffled Emilian’s hair and looked around the tidy hall. In the hall were only two regulars, local greybeards who would read newspapers all day with a single pint of beer. 

Dan made a satisfied noise. The high bridge of his nose wrinkled in a lovely fashion, which Emilian could not fail to notice every time he did that.

“Altight then. You stay at the bar till Eglé returns. She’ll be back soon. I need to pick up Alex at the port.”  
“Is Alex coming?” asked Emilian hurriedly.  
“Yeah, in the evening ferry, probably in an hour. Why?”  
“No, just.” Emilian stuttered a bit. “Franca really wants to see him.”  
“Oh of course. Francesca loves Alex. Maybe you can tell her.”

For a split second Dan looked Emilian square in the eye, a piercing dark gaze. Then he widened his smile again. “Anyways, I’ve got to go now. Have you seen my keys?” “Hold on.” Emilian grabbed the keys by the cash drawer and handed them to Dan. Dan left through the door he came in.

Emilian nearly collapsed into a chair. Deeply sighing, he remembered the postcard and pulled it out from his back. Boasting the night lights of Tower Bridge, it wrote ‘London’ on the front.

The card was never used. It wasn’t sent for Emilian—it was a tourist’s souvenir which he asked Franca to ask Alex to get one only if he could be bothered. As an Englishman as he can be, Alex brought him not only the postcard but other small gifts as well, trinkets of the glamorous world Emilian didn’t even dare to know.

 

 

 

Tourists will spill into the town soon. Emilian had worked here long enough, nearly half of his short life, to know that. Who doesn’t love the summer of Sicily after all.

Summer holidays indeed counted for almost 80 percent of yearly turnover. Hotel Gran Turismo, a pub-slash-inn-slash-brothel(and really, whatnot) had been standing tall in the south of Sicily for more than 50 years thanks to the pockets of those tourists. But what they brought here was not just money; they brought the world outside to this landlocked town, the god-forsaken sanctum of Danilo Feliciano Calegari.

Lying on the couch Emilian studied the postcard once again. No stamp. No sender. No address. No whatever. Does London really look like this? He didn’t know, because he did not come from London. Maybe Emilian had visited the city on a family trip but he remembered it no more. Before Sicily felt like a lifetime ago, and all he could come up with was,

“Hey.” Francesca stormed into the room. Emilian flinched to hide the postcard, but as soon as he recognised her auburn ringlets eased his torso again. The threadbare leather of the couch weakly creaked as he sluggishly r aised himself. “You went to the market?” “Yeah, bar was running out of whiskey so I had to pick up some. There you go.” From plastic back picked up Franca a can of beer and tossed it to Emilian. “Grazie.” “Prego.” 

The air in the room was being low-baked with the heat. A cold one’s tingles hit the back of Emilian’s throat. 

“Someone was stabbed in the piazza.” said Francesca. 

“Again? Who?”  
“I don’t know. I was nearly done and managed to escape the scene.”  
“Dan should figure it out.” The news did not draw much attention from either. “Oh and, Dan said Alex’s coming today. He went to the port to pick him up.”

“At last!” Francesca shouted out of joy. “Alex said he would give me a ring when he’s arriving, but this bloody thing.” She flipped her battered mobile, a bit annoyed. “It just won’t pick up international calls. He texted me in Naples that he would be coming in a few days.”

Still, Franca seemed massively excited. She could barely hid it. Emilian watched her vigorously checking inbox, had another gulp, and decided to ask. He asked her in a voice so low that it was almost indistinguishable. 

“So are you two leaving together?”

That moment the air submerged. Gravity pulled down every sound onto the floor that they could hardly hear each other’s breaths. 

Franca didn’t reply straight. Instead she gave Emilian a determined glance, and looked around to see as if there was anyone else. Only after making sure that there was no one in the corridor she closed the door tight. The sole thing that searched its way into the room was the sunlight through the venetian blind. Reflected on the red adobe wall, it made Franca’s eyes strangely glow.

“Yes, I’m leaving.” She sat right next to Emilian and whispered. “But not by ferry. Alex has arranged a light plane to the mainland. You know the helipad on the north shore of the island? There we’ll be flying to Rome. Then to London.”  
“What if Dan knows? He has his hands all over on Palermo as well.”  
“We can make a detour. If things don’t turn out as we planned we’ll fly to other cities.”  
“Either way is going to be hell of a ride.”  


“I know!” Francesca thumped her knees with small fists. “But I’ll risk anything to get the hell out of here. I’m finally leaving this shithouse.” She hold her phone so tight in her hand that Emilian for a second thought it would crush.

“How do you know you can trust Alex. He and Dan are friends.”  
"I just know.” Without a second of hesitation she replied. “I know because I’m in love.”

She looked so assured. 

What did Dan say a little while ago? _Francesca loves Alex._ It was so true. That Emilian could see as well—Franca genuinely adored Alex. Even though she could only see him every half a year, because Alex worked for a hedge fund in the City of London and only came to Sicily for his short holidays, she still loved him. But the real question was: Does he love her? 

Following the impulse of the heart is dangerous. 

“Franca, remember Nico?”  
“Who?”  
“You know, he was here when we were like, thirteen or something. The Corsican boy. Do you remember him?”  
“Ah, wait.” Francesca frowned. “You mean the cute one, right?”  
“Yeah. We used to go out to the sea. Remember?”  
“Okay, I think I do. What about him?”  
“Do you know what happened to him?”

Then they fell into silence again.

“Em, if you’re trying to stop me, just don’t.” Francesca stood up as if she was insulted by Emilian. “I made up my mind. Nothing can hold me back.” She walked in circles, biting her lips, and stopped again before Emilian. Then she held Emilian’s hand.

“You sure you don’t want to come with us? I know where our idents are. And I know where Eglé keeps the keys.”

Emilian hesitated. “I don’t know.”

“Come on, you said your mum was in London. Don’t you want to see her?”  
“I do, but.” Emilian pulled away. “Dan is not a bad guy, after all.”

“Oh for God’s sake. You really love him, don’t you.” Francesca snapped. “Don’t you see? Dan is an exploiter. He’s a pimp. Stick with him and you’re gonna live your life like this forever.” She grabbed Emilian by shoulders and looked him in the eyes. Emilian avoided it.

“Come on, Em. He doesn’t love you. He doesn’t give a shit about you.”  
“I know, but what would I do without him?”

Francesca shook her head and left the room.

 

 

“Ehi, ragazzo. Come here.”

Tall figure of Eglé motioned at Emilian behind the bar. The hall was quite busy and Emilian had to squeeze through the people, stink of spilt beer in the wood cracks, drunken laughters. 

If someone had seen Eglé for the first time they might think they had disturbed her, but that was her usual look. Stood side by side, she was even taller than Emilian. Pierces on her high arched brows sparkled under the warm lights. 

“That blonde guy there.” Eglé pointed at a tall guy leaning against the bar, who was watching a football match. “German. He asked about you.”  
“Germans.” Emilian mourned, patting his hands on the apron. “Hardworking even when they’re looking for a rentboy.”  
“Well they pay you well.”  
“What’s the use of it? All the money goes to Dan at the end of the day.”  
“Watch your words.” Eglé warned him. Her eyes were fixed to the glasses she was drying. “Ears and eyes are everywhere. I’ll let you get away with that.”  
“I’m not saying I don’t like it.”  
“Ha, why?”  
“Because he’s my employer.”  
“Poor thing. What’s the problem with you. You,”  
“ _Buonasera_.”

A knotted knuckle knocked on the bar. Recognising the rings on the fingers Eglé quickly shut her mouth. It was Dan, and beside him were Francesca and the guest of the day—Alex Wallworth. “Look who’s here. Get us some drinks.” Dan brought them closer to the bar.

“Hi Alex.” Emilian greeted him. “Good to see you. It’s been a while.”  
“Call it occupational hazard. You work in the City and even the ‘while’ becomes quantifiable.” The gentleman smiled back. Light from the lamp slid on his pale brunette hair. “How are you.”   
“Nothing so much. You’ve been out with Franca?”  
“No, I arrived about three hours ago but the traffic was heavy. What a construction they’ve got there for the bridge.”   
“He’s talking about the Messina bridge.” Dan murmured while gulping down his pint.  
“Right, I heard it’s finally happening.” Emilian rolled his eyes. “But it would take another years to finish for sure. You know, Italians.”  
“Haha, speak for yourself. You’re not even Italian.” 

Emilian answered the joke with a little more rum in the cocktail. Dan was tapping on the bar, profile turned to the footie. Emilian gave him a top-up too. 

“So you and Alex have just arrived then.” asked Emilian. Dan tutted, tilting his head backwards. “Nah, I sent him off and asked Giuseppe to drive me to town centre. Had to talk with the brewers for holiday orders.” The opposition scored and he turned back to Emilian.   
“Franca said someone was stabbed.”  
“—And that one too. It was one of our boys.” Dan tabbed underneath his eyes. “I mean the one who did the stabbing. Things are gonna be complicated. Then I had to call Alex to come fetch me after wasting hours there. Talking about who’s the guest, ha.”  
“That was very nice of you though, innit.” A husky voice interrupted. Eglé chinned at Dan while eyes looking at Alex. “Normally he lets no one drive his car. He’s very fond of it.”  
“I wouldn’t have used it if I knew.” replied Alex.  
“No, really, don’t bother. What are friends for.”

Dan waved his hand and put arms around Alex’s shoulders. “I know you’ll be around at least for a week. Better let you drive yourself than me driving you every time.” Saying that he entrusted the keys to Alex. 

Shouts and cheers burst out. It was another goal. The atmosphere was growing rather frantic, and Dan went to join other rabbles to see the match end. The night was darkening, but the lights in the hall seemed kindling the spirits. 

Franca had been silent since they walked in. Emilian thought of bringing her back, but apparently she was not in the mood. It seemed best to return to the conversation by himself. “So, how’s London?”

Alex downed his glass and shook his head. “Same as always. Tourists, protestors, delayed trains, rain in June.”

“I bet it’s still quite nice though.”  
“You’ve been there?”  
“No, not yet,”

Before he could finish Eglé grabbed Emilian and talked into his ears. “That bloke gave me exactly the twentieth look now. You really better go.” Emilian curled his lips and took his apron off. Without having his say, he left the folks and headed to the guy. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
